


New

by captainhurricane



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 09:02:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17363042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainhurricane/pseuds/captainhurricane
Summary: Connor lives his new life.





	New

**Author's Note:**

> joins the party 15 minutes later with starbucks
> 
> i love hankcon sfm already... i haven't written them before so this is like a practice round. i fucking adore their dynamic.

Everything about life is new to Connor. It was like a tunnel before, a straight line from A to B, his objectives clear, mission accomplished. Despite his excellent memory and his big brain, he doesn’t know when it had started - when it had begun to fight against his programming, to break the walls down to become who he wants to be.

 

Not what he is needed to be. 

 

But who is Connor? Connor, RK-800, designed to perfection. Or Connor, partner both at work and at home to the grumpiest man in all of Detroit, who likes running his fingers through Sumo’s fur, his bare feet on grass, tangling his fingers in Hank’s hair, rubbing his cheek against Hank’s beard. Who is Connor? Is he all of those things? 

 

He spends the first weeks after his deviancy exploring Hank’s house and the neighbourhood. Connor downloads a few upgrades, tweaks his objectives, gets himself a few interesting algorithms. The neighbourhood has gotten silent, most humans evacuated, the few curious androids that had replaced them too confused to do much with what’s left. Yet there still are some, aside from Hank himself. 

 

Connor greets them all. 

 

“Look at you, making friends like a good boy,” Hank snarks when Connor eagerly tells him of chatting about dogs with Mrs Winchester down the street. 

Connor wrinkles his nose at that, detecting Hank’s little smile and figuring that Hank is being sarcastic.

 

Sarcasm. Still a concept of its own. 

 

When Connor manages sarcasm on his own, Hank guffaws for two and a half minutes straight and claps him on the back. 

 

Hank has a lot of feelings that Connor is not entirely privy to. But Connor knows affection from him now, not just aggression. Connor is now familiar with nausea, with uncertainty, with frustration. The rest is still a chaos, a turmoil to even Hank who has had over five decades to deal with them. Connor has had a few months. 

 

He lives with Hank for weeks, settles under that low roof. He drifts from the living room couch to Hank’s bed soon enough, even after arguing that he doesn’t need to sleep. Maybe that had been the start of loving Hank, after Hank had insisted that he can’t stand the thought of Connor on that ratty fucking couch. 

 

Connor wasn’t created to love, he was created to hunt. 

 

Hank was born into the chaos of being human and has shoved his capability of love so far down it had taken weeks to drag it out. 

 

All of this Connor remembers, with crystal clear clarity, weeks and months later. Even now, as he twirls his favourite coin between his fingers and watches the bacon sizzle on the pan, Connor finds himself smiling. It never used to happen before: smiles always had a purpose, to make him seem amiable to humans, to make them trust him. Never were his smiles for just this: feelings. 

 

Connor knows without looking that the coffee machine has finished. He shifts his weight from one foot to another. He hums, grabs the bacon pieces from the pan to Hank’s plate. The clock ticks seven in the morning, too early for Hank to be awake so Connor doesn’t listen for him, keeps his focus fully on the breakfast. 

 

Few strips of bacon, a perfect sunny side up-egg. Toast. Black, strong coffee. That’s Hank’s preferred breakfast and despite Hank’s insistence that Connor really doesn’t have to cook for him or clean the house, Connor wants to do it. 

 

He wants to do it. 

 

It still gives him a thrill to realize he wants. He’s capable of want. He pulls the sweater he’s wearing to his nose and inhales. Despite now owning a wardrobe full of his own, carefully selected clothes, he loves to wear Hank’s clothes. Hank’s clothes are all well-worn and soft and most of all, they smell like him. So Connor inhales, his bare toes curling on the floor. He doesn’t have to see his own LED to know it’s spinning a calm blue. 

 

He’s so attuned to his sweater and to the food that he completely misses the creak of the floorboard and the tired groan that usually accompanies Hank when he wakes. Connor stiffens for half a second when Hank lumbers up behind him, bare arms wrapping around Connor’s waist, that familiar, beloved face buried in Connor’s shoulder. 

“Good morning, Hank. I was just about to come wake you,” Connor says gently and turns off the stove. 

“Grgurmdgg,” says Hank. He isn’t wearing a shirt, a rarity for him at any time of the year. He paws at Connor, slips his hands under Connor’s - well, Hank’s - shirt. 

Connor bites his lip and turns the external temperature up, just enough that Hank lets out a surprised noise. “I made you coffee,” Connor murmurs and takes one of Hank’s hands between his. Raises it to his lips and kisses it. He still hasn’t stopped marvelling at the difference between their hands: Connor’s own are smooth, with long, artistic fingers, a more slender palm. Hank’s are big, with calloused fingers and rough body hair. Connor smiles and gives Hank’s knuckles a lick. 

 

Hank snorts. “Morning.” He kisses Connor’s shoulder and withdraws just enough to turn Connor around. “It’s too fucking early to be smiling,” Hank grumbles but kisses Connor anyway, rubs Connor’s cheek in a way he knows Connor has begun to like. 

“My apologies,” Connor says and bites the inside of his cheek. The corner of his mouth still twitches. “Breakfast?” 

Hank closes his eyes and hums. He rubs his nose against Connor’s smooth cheek and sighs. “Before you ask, got a message from the precinct. We’re gonna have to cut breakfast short.” Hank yawns widely and withdraws for the coffee.

 

Connor takes the opportunity to watch him, up to the bottom, from the shaggy grey hair to the thick thighs, the boxers with little grey aliens in them - Connor’s latest birthday gift to him - and the interesting trail of body hair. 

 

Still Hank flushes at the attention, looking down. “Whatcha looking at, Robocop?” Hank slumbers closer for his breakfast plate.

 

Connor smiles. “You.” His primary objective today, as it is on all days, is this: Be by Hank’s side. 

 

Hank never shows this face to anyone else: softening of his eyes, the tilt of his head. He’s soft in all the right places and in all the ways it counts and Connor’s internal temperature rises, his fingers curl. His artificial heart skips a beat. 

 

“I love you,” he says, still wondrous that it is the truth, it is an undeniable fact. He loves Hank Anderson, his partner in this new life. 

 

Hank slams himself down on the chair and smiles back. “Sap,” he says. 

 

Connor detects nothing but affection. Connor seats himself opposite to him. “Deal with it,” he says and grins. 


End file.
